


Strangers

by TheLonelySheWolf



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Assassin AU, Blow Jobs, Bottom Charles, Cover Art, Emotionally Constipated Erik, Hand Jobs, I learnt how to make GIFs guys!, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Top Erik, Violence, also inspired by Strangers by Halsey, based loosely on atomic blonde, everyone smokes like a chimney, feels everywhere, fiesty Charles, photo manips, slow emotional burn but sex everywhere, smut from the start
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLonelySheWolf/pseuds/TheLonelySheWolf
Summary: Agent Erik Lehnsherr has been scraped off the pavement more times than he can count, sewn back together like a patchwork quilt and sent to do it all again the next morning. But Berlin presents a greater threat than even one of the Brotherhood's best can handle. With Mystique dead, a device with intel on every secret agent in the hands of a mercenary, and both Shaw and Stryker still at large, Erik has more than enough to deal with on his latest assignment.But when an unexpected British reconnaissance agent by the name of Charles Xavier turns up, Erik soon discovers that there's more at stake than just his mission.





	Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be updating one of my other fics, but I just had to deal with the Atomic Blonde feels. This was going to be a smutty oneshot, and I DON'T KNOW WHY, but plot just always happens. Still, it'll only be a few long chapters, maybe three or four. I'm not planning to drag it out! 
> 
> Cover art by me, because neon lights and James's tongue needed to be incorporated. Name came from 'Strangers' by Halsey, which actually would've been a really good theme song for the F/F relationship in Atomic Blonde.
> 
> Also, typos and such are my own. I don't have a beta. I also tend to edit my work at 2am. I generally have them fixed within the couple of days after posting (re-reading on a different platform does wonders).

 

Chapter 1: Berlin

 

The first thing Erik decides is that its _fucking cold_ in Berlin. Winter hasn’t quite arrived yet, but the air is bitter and bites at the exposed skin on his hands and face. His second decision involves a glass, some ice and a generous drop of scotch.

His hotel room isn’t awful; he’s certainly stayed in worse. The lighting is almost even pleasant; deep blue with odd hints of pink which make it look like a strip club, but the dullness of it does wonders for his throbbing head. The mirror across from his bed hangs over a low counter that’s supposed to serve as a dressing table. He uses it to assess the damage: a cut above his left eyebrow where he caught a shard of glass; mottled bruising that’s already darkened to blue-black over his belly and ribs. Twisting around to look over his shoulder is uncomfortable, but yes, there’s more splotches of colour visible there too.

He got off lightly, if he’s being honest. Compared to some of the assignments that saw him getting scraped off the pavement and stitched back together like a patchwork quilt, this is nothing. He’d probably taken worse during his early training days.

He takes a shower, hot then cold to ease his muscles, before throwing on a soft shirt and sweatpants. A refill of scotch finds its way into one of his bruised hands before he perches at the poor excuse of a dining table, barely large enough to seat one person. He brings out his mission file, photographs falling out onto the well-worn surface of the tabletop.

Shaw’s been a wanted man for years now, shuffling through identities like a dealer cuts through a deck of cards. Even with the extensive resources of the Brotherhood, Shaw has managed to continuously slip through their fingers, like grasping at smoke. Erik’s own interest in him is a great deal more personal, but he’s here on business, not for his own vendetta. That the two interests coincide this time is just a stroke of luck, really.

Erik’s muscles protest with a deep ache when he stands, but he’s dying for a cigarette and he won’t be satisfied until he’s had it. He finds a pack in the top of his luggage along with his metal lighter. Both in hand, he returns to the table and lights one up with little fanfare. A deep drag burns down his throat and into his lungs, he holds it, and lets it out with a long sigh. The tension slowly dissipates from his shoulders as he repeats the ritual twice more.

Satisfied, he turns back to the file. There’s a picture of an expensive watch atop the pile. It’s not a photograph exactly, just a stock-standard image taken from a catalogue. His primary target is supposed to look much the same, but to anyone with the right knowledge, it has the potential to cause more harm than a nuclear missile.  

The next photo was taken by one of their agents and shows a reedy looking man with glasses. Although ‘man’ is perhaps being generous; he’s hardly past his late teens. Henry McCoy is a genius, talented in everything from science to engineering. He’s responsible for the design of the watch and the secret list contained within. He isn’t directly affiliated with the Brotherhood or any of the other agencies, but he has done plenty of commissions for them in the past.

The next is a photograph of Mystique. Erik had known her well, though to anyone else’s knowledge they were just passing colleagues. She’d been beautiful, talented and the closest to anything that Erik had ever considered a ‘friend’. The last time he’d seen her was several months ago.

They’d found her dead two days before Erik’s arrival in Berlin. According to the file, she’d been close to McCoy and he’d given her the watch for safekeeping. An independent mercenary by the name of Creed had shot her in the head and taken it. The authorities had found her in the river the next morning.

Erik’s assignment is to retrieve the watch, or more importantly, the list it conceals: a detailed account of every agent’s identity, Brotherhood or otherwise. It gives a detailed history of their kills, their strengths and weaknesses, _everything._ In the wrong hands, their agents could be picked off one by one, like so much cattle rounded up for slaughter.

It wasn’t set to be an easy assignment. Erik had no sooner left the airport this afternoon before he’d been attacked. Emma Frost, their local source of information, had been expected to collect him from outside. Instead, a heavily-accented Russian and his shorter accomplice had found him.

“Mr Lehnsherr, Miss Frost sends her apologies for running late. We’re here to collect you instead, _da?_ ”

Erik had smelt a rat immediately, but he’d gone quietly nonetheless. They’d been less than ten minutes down the road before Erik had the car flipped and both men incapacitated. Frost had pulled up only seconds after he’d crawled from the wreck, her attire falling somewhere between a whore and a snowflake. Admittedly, she isn’t well known for her discreetness. That’s more Erik’s expertise.

She’d dropped him off at his hotel after giving vague excuses about her absence, but bruised and sore, Erik had given her little more than a few blunt words before slamming the car door and hauling his luggage towards the hotel lobby.

He’s supposed to meet her again tomorrow. But for now, he’s free to indulge in more liquor and another cigarette.

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

Frost’s office suits her well. With that much white, she must be confident that its location is either secure or well hidden. Washing bloodstains out of the upholstery in here would be tedious at best.

“So, your first time in Berlin?” she asks, taking his coat from him before waving him towards one of the armchairs.

“Yes.”

She moves over to the desk which is remarkably cluttered by contrast to the rest of the room, leaning back against its edge before giving him a thorough look-over. “It’s a mess around here these days, with the protests and politics. The clubs aren’t bad though. I’d stop by _Hellfire_ if you’re looking for good information. Though from the looks of you, I’d say you need a good _time_ more than anything.” Her eyebrows have raised suggestively, and she gives him a small smirk.

He stares back at her impassively. “What information do you have on the list?”

Frost sighs and looks awfully unimpressed, almost seeming bored now that Erik’s refused to take her bait. She’ll have to get used to it if she plans on having much contact with him while he’s here. Though that itself depends on how useful he finds her information. If she has nothing, there’s little reason to see her again.

“Creed has the watch. He hasn’t taken it to Shaw or Stryker yet, which would suggest that he doesn’t intend to do so.”

“He’ll sell it to the highest bidder.”

She nods. “That was my conclusion. But I think you have other concerns to consider.”

Erik doubts anything could be as pressing as retrieving the list, but if Shaw’s involved, then there’s still a potential cause for concern. “Such as?”

Frost moves to the chair behind her desk, sinking down into it with a lazy grace. “While I was out fishing the other night, I ran into McCoy. Naturally, he’s concerned about his safety now that the watch has been exposed. I’d say his girlfriend’s death has him spooked more than the list though.”

Erik isn’t at all surprised. From what he’s heard of the wonder kid, he’s painfully timid and not at all built for conflict. “Is that supposed to concern me?”

Frost says nothing, watching him instead, and he knows that she’s enjoying making him wait for it. Erik however, has the patience of a saint when he needs it. So he says nothing, his expression a stony mask while he waits for her to grow bored of the game. It doesn’t take long.

“McCoy has the list committed to memory.”

 _Fucking fuck._ He can’t help but raise his eyebrows. He’d kill the kid himself if he wasn’t such an asset to the Brotherhood. That’s double the risk of an information leak. McCoy wouldn’t be trained to resist torture, either. Maybe he’ll remove him from the picture anyway. Accidents happen, after all.

“Who else knows?”

Frost shrugs. “I’d say only us, but I have no way of knowing for sure. If Shaw or Stryker knew, he’d be missing by now. He’s already a target, anyone with his talents would be, but if they get wind of it, well … let’s just say it’d be cheaper to abduct him than to buy the watch from Creed.”

Why McCoy made the list in the first place is beyond Erik’s knowledge. An order from higher up the chain most likely. Erik doesn’t understand why they’d commission such a device without placing McCoy in protective custody. There’s too many holes in the story. It seems too careless.

Erik leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Where’s McCoy now?” 

“Holed up in his laboratory I’d imagine. The location’s been kept secret, but I doubt it will be for long. He’s easy prey while he remains in the city. I don’t blame him for wanting a ticket out.”

“What did he offer in exchange?”

“The list.”

Of course. McCoy must know its value. With the watch missing he’s the only safety net that remains. Erik would rather see the information gone entirely, but he knows his employers would prefer to see it retrieved. After all, that _is_ Erik’s primary objective while in Berlin.

Emma continues before he can speak. “I can help make the arrangements to get him out of town. I’d suggest waiting for things to settle before moving him though. Keep McCoy safely hidden away as he is at the moment and focus on Creed.”

“What do you have on Creed then?” he asks.

Frost looks … sheepish? It doesn’t suit her persona at all, but the expression is unmistakable. “Nothing at the moment. I’m too well established within the local network to get the necessary information. On the other hand, no one around here knows who _you_ are.”

“Those two men outside the airport knew me well enough.”

“That’s because they work for Shaw. And Shaw knows you well.” There’s no denying that she has a point there. “But to the others outside his circle, you’re still anonymous. Creed won’t know who you are, or Stryker, let alone the other independent mercenaries and dealers.”

Erik is itching for a cigarette. He’s not used to sitting this still for so long, not with someone like Frost. He’s done stakeouts before, yes, but alone or with reliable agents. Frost just grates on his nerves and makes him restless. They’re too similar, perhaps. Not that he’d ever admit as much.

“With the right persuasion you should be able to source what you need from one of the independent dealers that frequent _Hellfire_ ,” Frost continues. “You’ll need something to trade in exchange, be it information, money or failing that, sexual favours.”

“I suppose you’d be well practised in the last one,” Erik can’t help but say. Uncalled for perhaps, but he’s definitely growing antsier by the minute as he continues to sit in her office. Far too much white for his throbbing head. And his bruised muscles are starting to ache again.

Frost takes it as well as can be expected, a coldness creeping up into her eyes. “If you don’t want my advice, then leave it. But just know this: things work differently around here. If you aren’t prepared to do whatever’s necessary, even if it _means_ getting dirty, then you’ll have a slim chance at best of retrieving that list.”

Erik scowls at her. “If that’s the best you have then I’d say we’re done here.”

“Fine by me, sugar.” She grabs his jacket and tosses it over to him, only his quick reflexes stopping it from landing on his head. The little display of aggression is hardly more than an amusement to him. “I’m sure you can find your way out,” she dismisses him.

The frigid air outside is welcome as he steps out onto the street. Anything’s an improvement on Frost’s temperament at this point. Erik heads back to the hotel on foot, knowing that the walk will give him time to think. He remains aware of his surroundings even as he ponders, years of instinct and training forcing him to keep his eyes wide open. Getting caught off-guard in the open can easily be an agent’s undoing.

While Erik may not agree with Frost’s methods, he has to concede that the visit wasn’t entirely worthless. At the very least, knowing about McCoy is an advantage, even if Erik doesn’t know where the kid _is_ exactly _._ With little else to follow, he’s seriously considering making a visit to this _Hellfire_ club. It can’t hurt to do some reconnaissance on the local underground at the very least.

As Erik rounds a corner the back of his neck begins to prickle, a tell that usually indicates when he’s being watched. Keeping his pace even, his eyes flick over the surrounding buildings and vacant windows. There’s nothing outwardly suspicious. A mother holding her son’s hand as they cross the street. A couple of teenagers smoking up against the wall. A man making a call in the telephone booth.

Oh. Erik makes eye contact with him briefly, his muscles tensing as they study one another from across the street. The man looks away, and Erik keeps walking, his heart slowing only when he’s certain he isn’t being followed. He makes it back to the hotel room without any trouble, but it takes fifteen minutes and two cigarettes before he’s able to unwind.

It’s probably just a coincidence. The man hadn’t looked suspicious. More like a professor or a lawyer than an assassin. Erik _knows_ that he’s overcautious in all regards, but he’s found that it pays to remain vigilant in his line of work. He’s seen from experience what too often happens to those that become careless.

Erik has no intention of becoming one of them anytime soon.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Erik ends up at _Hellfire_ that night. The club is all that he expected it to be. It’s lit solely by red strips of neon lighting, the air clouded by smoke and heavy with the stench of sex, sweat and tobacco. He passes a boy wearing a harness and little else, kneeling at the feet of a woman wearing tall boots that cling tightly to her thighs. Further in, two bare chested women twist and grind against a set of poles, the crowds around the stage seemingly mesmerised by the movements of their oiled skin.

Erik is dressed appropriately for the occasion. His leather pants are skin tight, as is the translucent mesh shirt beneath his jacket. It does little against the chill of the autumn air outside, but in here the air is heated by the swell of bodies.

He’s barely finished ordering his drink at the bar when a familiar prickling sensation starts at the back of his neck. He tips his glass back slowly, the ice resting against his top lip as he subtly flicks his gaze across the surrounding crowd. It doesn’t take him long to locate the set of eyes that are trained on him intently.

It’s the man from the phone booth. If he’s an agent, he’s a novice at remaining hidden. This time, Erik is calm as he assesses the threat. On the street he was exposed to the risk of snipers, but in a crowded club like this, it’s easier for him to seize the advantage. Erik studies the man over his glass, taking in his grey suit jacket—likely concealing weapons, much like Erik’s is—with a shirt two shades darker underneath. The buttons are undone low enough to emphasize his pale throat even from across the room.

Draining the last of his glass, Erik places it back on the bar and stalks his way through the crowd. The man doesn’t turn at his approach, still leaning with his hip up against one of the structural beams. Dark jeans cling to his muscular thighs, and while he’s a few inches shorter than Erik, it’s obvious that he has a solid build. Erik would be foolish to dismiss him as a threat merely because of a minor height difference.

Erik places a hand on the beam, crowding him from behind. As he turns, Erik is given a close-up view of blue eyes, though most of the colour has been eaten away by inky pupils in the low light. Erik offers him a slow smile that surely betrays his intent, and is given a remarkably more innocent one in return.

“Are you here with someone?” Erik asks, leaning in to be better heard over the thumping tempo of music.

The man shakes his head in response, eyes roaming over Erik, assessing. He offers a flirtatious smile when his gaze makes it back up to Erik’s face, _interested_ it says.  

Erik leans in closer. The hand that isn’t resting against the beam moves up to lightly trace along the man’s side. A pink tongue darts out to lick obscenely red lips, and Erik rather wants to chase the movement with his own mouth. Instead, he says loud enough for him to hear, “Perhaps we should go somewhere … quieter, to talk.”

The man nods and begins moving away towards the back of the room. Erik follows him closely as they weave through the crowd of swaying, sweat-slick bodies. They go through a door and into a vacant passageway that’s poorly lit by more strips of red neon, the sound of the club muted as the door closes behind them.

The space is narrow and graffiti litters the red-washed walls. Erik backs the man against one of them, bodies close enough to share heat as they move. Stuck between the wall and Erik, the man meets his gaze, tongue lazily sliding out across his lips again, and this time Erik _does_ chase it. His mouth opens beautifully beneath Erik’s, a small gasp escaping from the shorter man that sees a curl of arousal building in Erik’s gut.

Trailing his fingers over the softer fabric of his grey shirt reveals that he is indeed as well-built as Erik had suspected. The man tenses underneath him as his hands trailer further beneath the jacket but Erik quickly distracts him with a thrust of his hips that sends their hardening cocks rubbing together through layers of leather and denim.

It takes Erik only two seconds more to find and free the concealed handgun at the small of the man’s back. With it in hand he moves away abruptly, using his other to pin him to the wall by his throat.

“Who the fuck are you?” Erik growls at him. There’s surprise and a little fear in his eyes, the colour washed out entirely by the red lights. “You’ve been following me. Since the airport.” Erik hadn’t actually seen him there, distracted as he’d been by Shaw’s men. Still, the man’s reaction confirms that his guess was correct.

The man gestures at his throat, and oh, he _is_ starting to purple from the lack of oxygen. Erik hadn’t noticed under the lights, but he relaxes his grip and the man coughs as air rushes back into his lungs.

“Well?” he provokes as the man straightens.

Erik watches with vague disbelief as the man’s demeanour shifts, the change in expression and posture so blatant that it’s like watching another person take possession. What he’d initially perceived to be an inexperienced agent morphs into something aged with the kind of weight that comes from doing work of the unpleasant, soul-destroying variety. It’s the same haunted echo that Erik’s seen in his own reflection too often. Split personality, or well-trained actor? Erik is leaning towards the latter, which means he’s been effectively trapped in a spider’s web. Still, Erik has the gun and plenty of tricks of his own.

“I’m Agent Charles Xavier of the British division.” The posh, British accent that accompanies his words is certainly a strong indicator that he’s being at least halfway honest. “Yes, I’ve been following you. Though you’ll find that if I didn’t _want_ you to discover me, you wouldn’t have seen me.”

Erik scowls at him. “Don’t underestimate my abilities.”

“On the contrary my friend, I haven’t, which is why I’ve sought your attention. I believe we have common _interests_ as it were, and that it would be advantageous for us to work together rather than on our own.” It seems they have more in common than their professions, unless the arousal still pressing against Erik’s thigh is also just an act to lure him in.

“I thought I was alone out here.” Certainly no word had come from his supervisor that he should expect to see another employed agent in the field. Frost is merely a contractor of sorts. Mystique had been the only agent in Berlin until her death and Erik’s subsequent arrival.

“My friend, you are not alone.”

“We aren’t friends.” Erik snaps. Something still isn’t sitting right with him. “Why are you in Berlin? I received no word to expect another agent.”

Xavier’s eyes betray a moment of weakness as they take on a glassy quality, the type that hints at tears being supressed. Those eyes will get him killed one day. It’s a fatal flaw to have such honest eyes in their line of work.

It’s an intriguing notion though, after spending years with little company beyond the hardened assassins that wear faces of stone and ash all day. Their emotions are so quickly supressed and buried away through the gruelling training of both mind and body. Yet Xavier doesn’t strike him as a fresh recruit, not now that his first mask of innocence has been pulled away. The vulnerability strikes a chord in Erik, but the sheen in Xavier’s eyes disappears again quickly, like raindrops that evaporate as they fall onto scorched earth.

“I’d rather discuss this somewhere else,” Xavier says, pulling away from him in far too many ways. It leaves Erik panicked and desperate, feeling all too like he’s been denied something important, something that he’d lost long ago. A forgotten treasure found only to be snatched away again. It pulls the air from his lungs and the gun in Erik’s hand quivers from the sudden tremble in his fingers.

Xavier’s tongue darts out to his lip again, leaving a glistening sheen in its wake. Erik watches it intently, the air between them suddenly charged with tension. Or perhaps it’s been that way all along, and Erik has simply been too distracted, too quick to discount it in light of the man’s propositions. Xavier is watching him steadily, not moving beyond the deep breath he takes through parted lips. 

 _Fuck it,_ Erik thinks in a moment of selfishness, closing the distance between them to seize Xavier’s mouth with his own. Either Xavier is determined to keep up the pretence, or he _is_ genuinely attracted to Erik because he goes pliant beneath him, mouth opening to welcome Erik’s tongue as it chases some trace of the hidden prize that had slipped away from him too quickly before.

His mouth is hot and wet and Erik’s heart is moving with a rapidness that usually only surfaces in the face of danger. But Xavier _is_ dangerous. It’s written in the firm flesh beneath Erik’s roaming hand, his other still holding onto the gun he’d seized from Xavier earlier. More dangerous still is the way he’s igniting Erik’s senses, stirring up needs that he hasn’t allowed himself to indulge in since… well there’s no use thinking back on it _now_.

Not while Erik’s mouth trails over Xavier’s exposed neck, prompting a delicious gasp from beside his ear. He licks the soft skin, tasting salt and an echo of soap, the fine hairs making it feel like suede beneath his tongue. Xavier is arching up against him, fingers grasping at the fabric of Erik’s mesh shirt as their hips slot together to provide an ounce of relief.

Erik is aching with want now, falling apart at the seams as he seizes that impossibly red mouth, the colour heightened by the lights of the same colour. Xavier’s eyes are almost entirely black, blown wide with arousal and the already dim corridor. It’s a miracle no one’s stumbled upon them yet. Though in this type of setting, such encounters aren’t unusual enough to garner a questioning second glance. 

Wanting the use of both his hands, Erik slips Xavier’s gun into the pocket of his jacket, momentarily glad that it’s a discrete enough weapon to fit. With that taken care of, he moves one hand to the button on Xavier’s jeans, the other moving to the fastenings on his leather pants. They’re still close enough that Erik can feel Xavier’s quick breaths ghost against his nose and lips, their foreheads almost touching as Erik looks down at what he’s doing.

Xavier’s head slips down to rest on Erik’s shoulder as he finally manages to free the man’s cock from the confines of his jeans. A groan follows, heating the skin on Erik’s neck as he gives it an experimental tug. He manages to free himself soon after, but allows it to hang untouched for a moment as he raises his hand to Xavier’s lips

“Get it wet,” he orders him, and Xavier pulls away from Erik’s neck to take three fingers into his mouth. Erik’s prick twitches at the sight, Xavier’s eyes hazy and half closed, red lips stretched tight around his fingers as he sucks them back in.

Erik had planned to jerk them off together with little more than his hand, but seeing that mouth at work is too much of a temptation. He removes his fingers from Xavier’s mouth, using it to instead push down on his shoulder. Xavier takes the hint, sinking to his knees without complaint, his hands coming to rest over Erik’s leather-clad thighs.

Without any further prompting, Xavier takes Erik’s tip into his mouth, surrounding it in wet heat. He can’t help the instinctive thrust that follows, chasing that warmth, sending his cock deeper until its hitting the back of his throat. Xavier recovers from the sudden intrusion with a grace that speaks of experience, sucking firmly as he pulls his head back until until the tip pokes past his lips, tongue flicking over the slit. Erik groans, fingers tangling into Xavier’s dark hair as he sucks him back down again, deeper this time, almost to the base. It’s an impressive feat. Erik isn’t small by any standard.

It isn’t long before Erik’s hips are moving forward in small thrusts, fucking Xavier’s mouth, using the grip on his hair to keep him in place. When Xavier looks up at him his darkened eyes are wet, glistening tracks leaking from the corners, mouth stretched obscenely around Erik’s prick. _That_ is what Erik was chasing, that vulnerability, the spark of fire he’d seen so fleetingly before. Its diluted by the fucked-out daze in Xavier’s eyes, but it’s still enough to tip him over the edge, come spurting hot into that wet heat.

Xavier swallows most of it, much to Erik’s satisfaction, but some of the pearly drops dribble from his lips and onto his chin. That tongue comes back out to lick his lips and chase the excess as watery eyes blink up at him. Xavier’s cock is still hanging out from his jeans, full and untouched, his hands having stayed on Erik’s thighs the entire time.

He looks absolutely wrecked, and quite possibly like one of the most exquisite things Erik has ever stumbled upon, covered in his come and exposed for anyone passing by to see.

“Get up here,” Erik orders as he tucks himself back into his pants and fastens them. Xavier does so unsteadily, knees probably aching by now after kneeling on the unforgiving cement. Erik crowds him back against the wall, thumb coming up to wipe some of the remains of semen from his chin, moving it back towards Xavier’s mouth. He parts his lips obligingly, licking the mess clean from his fingers. When he’s done, Erik covers that well-fucked mouth with his own, chasing his own taste as a needy groan rises in Xavier’s throat.

Erik pulls away only to spit in his own palm before reaching down to take the other man’s prick into his hand. He goes purely by feel, his eyes staying locked on the other’s as they grow heavy lidded again, swollen lips parted as ragged breaths escape past them. Xavier comes hot over his hand with their eyes locked together. There’s something strangely intimate about it, and Erik is relieved when Xavier tips his head back against the wall, eyes closed.

Now that he’s sated, Erik doesn’t know what to do. In the absence of that driving hunger he’s left feeling void of purpose, standing in a corridor with come on his hand. Fortunately, Charles has recovered from his own release, and after righting himself and his jeans, produces a clean handkerchief from his pocket which he then passes to Erik. Ever the British gentleman, it would seem.

“Well then,” Charles says. “I don’t feel much like standing around here any longer, and I believe we have more to discuss. My lodgings aren’t far from here if you’d like somewhere more private to talk. It’s comfortable enough.”

Erik stares at him blankly for a moment, considering. Privacy is a necessity, and comfort a welcome bonus, but walking into his home territory seems like a risk. Probably still safer than if he went back to Erik’s hotel, where he’d have opportunity to rummage through his things.

“Lead the way then,” Erik concedes, handing back his handkerchief. Charles looks amused but pockets it nonetheless before heading back out into the club. Erik follows him closely, the seized gun still in his pocket. He has no intention of returning it until he knows Charles is indeed an ally and not an enemy. A good blowjob isn’t enough to convince Erik that he’s safe from risk.

Giving into such desires was a foolish decision in the first place, he realises now that his mind is considerably clearer. Foolish, yes, but even so, a part of Erik knows that he’d be likely to succumb to it again if the opportunity arose. And that makes Charles _exceptionally_ dangerous. Erik can’t afford the distraction, and it should worry him more that he isn’t fighting against such wants. But he isn’t worried. He’s tired.

So he follows Charles through the dark streets of Berlin. It’s freezing again, though not as bad as that first day when he’d arrived. The mesh shirt he’s wearing doesn’t help matters, though he knows what Charles is wearing isn’t much thicker and yet _he_ seems mostly unaffected. They don’t speak while they walk, both clearly keeping an eye out for any threats hiding in the shadows.

Ten minutes later he’s being led up the steps to a respectable looking apartment building. Charles unlocks the front door while Erik studies the list of names and door buzzers beside them. Charles’s name isn’t on there, but a few of the plaques are still blank.

His apartment is a great deal more pleasant than Erik had anticipated. It’s clean, modern and more comfortable than Erik would expect from an agent. It’s larger than Erik’s hotel suite, the furnishings clearly more expensive. He follows Charles into the kitchen, lights being flicked on along the way.

“Drink?” Charles asks, heading over to one of the cupboards.

“Sure,” Erik answers distractedly, taking in his surroundings as he wanders over to the counter, leaning against it with his hip. Charles’s apartment is almost the perfect opposite to Erik’s hotel. Everything is in pale, neutral tones and lit brightly by the overhead lights.

“Here,” Charles prompts him, nudging his shoulder with a glass tumbler. Scotch on ice. Erik quirks a brow at him as he accepts it.

“You’re a quick study.”

Charles shrugs dismissively. “It’s rather in the job description to be observant, isn’t it? Come on, its warmer out on the lounge.”

Charles leads him into the next room, another glass of ice and the bottle of scotch in each of his hands. It’s nice in here, a gas heater warming the air while a corner lamp throws soft light across the room. An antique-looking, maroon sofa is the first splash of colour Erik’s seen. The other furniture is basic, little more than a television on a low cabinet, a small bookshelf cluttered with battered novels and a corner table with a chess set atop its surface.

“Do you play?” Charles asks, catching his lingering gaze.

Erik shrugs. “Not for a while.”

“That’s good enough for me,” he says, putting down the scotch and his glass on the coffee table that sits between the television and couch. He retrieves the chess board and pops it down beside the liquor before dropping down onto the couch. Taken back by his casual enthusiasm, Erik takes a seat beside him a moment later.

“Colour?” Charles prompts.

“Black.” Old habits die hard. Charles grins in answer and slides a white pawn across the board.

“What brings you to Berlin, then?” Erik asks as he takes his turn.

Charles’s expression sobers. He reaches for his glass and generously pours the scotch into it before taking a sip. “I was on leave, originally. I came over here to see family. Needless to say, things became complicated and I ended up staying longer than intended. My employers thought it would be advisable to have an agent underneath the radar when Shaw surfaced a few months ago.”

“You haven’t made much progress then.” He can’t have done with Shaw still at large and the watch now missing.

Charles glances back down to the board and moves another pawn. “My assignment was to gather intel and send it back to headquarters. I’ve managed that well enough, but I’ve been instructed to keep my distance.” There’s frustration in his voice there, and a little anger.

“I take it you don’t approve of the assignment.”

Charles sighs. “It was fine to begin with, but with the watch missing and the threat that the list now presents, it doesn’t seem right to sit idly by.”

“What do you intend to do then?” Erik asks, watching him carefully.

Charles looks up at him then. “While I can’t become involved directly, it doesn’t stop me from passing on information to someone that _can._ ” He gives Erik a suggestive look.

“And obviously that someone would be me.” It isn’t an unfair deal. Erik is already here with the intent and purpose of retrieving the watch, with whatever necessary action that is required to do so. A source of information is what he needs. That was what led him to _Hellfire_ in the first place. It seems he’s found a source.

It almost seems too easy. “What would I be expected to give in return?”

Charles blinks at him, looking vaguely puzzled. “Why would I expect anything from you? You’d be the one doing the brunt of the work. I don’t want Shaw to get his hands on that list any more than you do. If providing intel will help you retrieve it, then it’s the least I can do.”

Ordinarily it would seem doubtful, but Charles seems to genuinely believe that Erik would be doing him a favour. Yet to risk everything by going against orders, even if indirectly, tells Erik that something else is influencing Charles’s intentions. How he’s supposed to find out what that is exactly, he isn’t sure. Perhaps time will bring the matter to light.

Erik remains quiet as he weighs it over in his mind, moving pieces across the board and draining the two refills of scotch that Charles pours him. Charles is likewise silent, though he seems to be in good spirits, eyes sparkling in the soft light as he leans over the chess board.

“Very well then,” Erik finally concedes. “I’ll work with you.”

The relief from Charles is obvious, and he offers Erik a small smile as he shakes the offered hand. Their touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, and Erik is quick to pick up his glass again as soon as his hand is freed.

Erik’s eyes are feeling heavy from the liquor now, and as much as he’s loathe to admit that he’s enjoying the company, he knows that he needs to rest. His injuries are still a grievance, even though they’ve been numbed to a distant ache by the alcohol. Unfortunately, everything else seems to be numb now too.

“I should head back,” Erik tells him, cutting off Charles before he can launch into what is surely an enthusiastic speech about their new partnership. No, that’s probably too strong a word. _Arrangement_ seems more accurate.

Charles frowns at him. “In your condition? That hardly seems wise.”

“I’m more than capable of getting back to my hotel,” Erik disagrees, moving to stand. The room spins with him, and he blinks rapidly to clear his vision. Charles is there in an instant, a hand on his elbow. Erik shrugs it off.

“I must insist that you stay the night,” Charles tells him, and his voice has dropped to something low and deadly. When Erik looks at him, his pretty mouth is set into a grim line. “I won’t risk you getting picked off by Shaw’s men because you were too stubborn to share a bed.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He’s going to regret this tomorrow, he knows it.

Charles’s expression softens a little, though not by much. “Come on then, this way.”

He follows Charles down to the bedroom, which isn’t overly different from the rest of the apartment. The bed is a king, so space won’t be an issue at least. Erik distantly wonders—certainly not for the first time tonight—how an agent acquired such a well-furnished, modern dwelling.

“I’ll leave you to it. I sleep on the right side though, just so you’re aware.”

Erik says nothing, but gives him a small nod before proceeding to remove his boots. Charles ventures back out towards the living area, and Erik quickly strips down to his underwear before climbing in under the sheets.

He lies there stiffly, listening to Charles move about the apartment. Erik isn’t used to sharing a space with anyone, let alone a bed, and he very much doubts he’ll get much sleep tonight, if any. No help for it now though. He’ll just have to head out early and snatch a few hours’ rest back at the hotel in the morning.

Charles comes back into the bedroom a short while later. Erik is facing the door, and tries to ignore him as he begins stripping down to his briefs. Tries, but fails. The bedside lamp throws enough light to reveal pale skin dusted by freckles. Charles doesn’t have as much muscle definition as Erik across his abdomen, but his arms are particularly well built, as are his strong thighs. He’s certainly solid, and if anything, his unassuming outward appearance could work as an advantage in a fight. For Erik though, the sight is certainly more than tempting.

The mattress dips as Charles climbs into the bed behind him.

“Goodnight,” Charles mumbles before flicking the lamp off. Erik says nothing in response, closing his eyes.

He falls asleep with an unexpected swiftness, and doesn’t wake even once during the night.

 

 

 

 


End file.
